World's First Wizard Complete Series Boxed Set

by Schneider, Aaron D.

  With his peculiar gentleness, Bakbak-Dovi deposited the cowboy on the raft and proceeded to send them gliding up the river.

  “I notice you have no apology for my compatriot,” Mr. Astor stated as he continued watching the vista beyond the boat.

  “I most certainly do not,” Ambrose rumbled.

  “Oh, that’s all right, Percy.” Ezekiel chuckled as he rose to shake the water from his hat.

  He turned to grin at Ambrose.

  “Better luck next time, big fella,”

  Ambrose grinned back but didn’t budge otherwise.

  “It was the smell, sweetie. Didn’t want to spend any more time having to smell you.”

  * * *

  The manse of the marquis sprawled past the water’s edge, a vast estate whose whitewashed walls swept in a wide arc that formed a harbor in the midst of the river. Between these lantern-hung arms stood a dock whose planks were richly engraved with glowing patterns of knots and whorls, all of which seemed to move when Milo wasn’t looking directly at them. The illuminated boards stretched from the dock up to form stairs to a hedgerow gate that led to the manse’s gardens.

  “Impressive,” Percy commented, looking up at the giant. “It bears a striking resemblance to Château de Kerjean.”

  The many heads nodded.

  “THE MARQUIS WOULD BE PLEASED TO HEAR YOU SAY SO,” Bakbak-Devi replied. “HE RENOVATED THE MANOR AFTER VISITING HIS COUSIN IN THE FOREST OF BROCÉLIANDE AND TOURING THE DUCHY.”

  “Fey go on holiday?” Ambrose asked.

  “I guess so,” Milo muttered distractedly, his attention divided between watching the Americans and surveying the manor. The architecture and subsequent historical implications were lost on him, but Milo felt the power vibrating off the construction. The closer they drew to it, the more potent that was until Milo felt it as a low tingle across his skin. Like the hex upon the knife, it was different from essence or shades—less focused, yet more fluid and lively, and it saturated the structure. As the raft slid up to the dock, Milo wondered how much of what he saw was physical objects, stone, wood, mortar, and how much was some magical simulation of the material.

  Bakbak-Devi lashed the raft to the dock and then led them across the boards to land.

  “THE SECOND SUPPLICANTS SHALL BE INTRODUCED FIRST,” the giant explained as he ushered them off the raft as gently as a mother hen. “AGAIN, I WILL REMIND YOU TO BE RESPECTFUL TO EACH OTHER FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR HOST. BREACHES IN COURTESY CAN HAVE SERIOUS CONSEQUENCES.”

  So warned, the Americans and then Milo and Ambrose followed him up the dock and to the hedge gate. Milo expected the Bakbak-Devi to produce an immense key or parlay with an eldritch gatekeeper, but instead, the ogrish servant waved a hand, and the gate swung open silently. Again, Milo felt a tickle of magic, but it was almost imperceptible amongst the background hum of so much magic around him.

  Past the gate, they walked through a topiary garden where the plants had been worked into masterful statues of men and women at rest or at play. Their craftsmanship was so incredibly lifelike it took Milo a second to realize something was wrong when one of them raised its head from contemplating a small pool and gave a slight nod of greeting. Milo stared and then waved back.

  Milo could animate a corpse through binding a shade or make a wooden statue amble about, powered by a specter, but this was different. This was a living being, reshaped and elevated beyond its simplistic foundations, possibly even given a kind of sentience. Wonder and a jealous hunger to know more raced through Milo.

  He was so distracted that he almost trod on Percy’s heels, but Ambrose caught him by the shoulder. They stood in front of a vast round hedge that grew to eye-level with Bakbak-Devi, and inside could be heard the soft strum of harps and the murmur of comfortable conversation. Set into the hedge was a portal of Corinthian columns with a velvet curtain draped across the opening. Bakbak-Devi put a hand to the curtain and slid partially through before pausing to turn half his heads toward them.

  “WAIT HERE.”

  Then, quicker and smoother than any creature so large had a right to, he disappeared through the portal. The music beyond the curtain stilled as the giant spoke to someone within, but the words were muffled and indistinct.

  The Americans held a brief whispered conference while Milo and Ambrose moved shoulder to shoulder.

  Ambrose muttered under his breath, “You did want to bring the cowboy along to show the marquis. Looks like you got your wish.”

  Milo eyed the whispering duo like he would a pair of vipers.

  “I wanted to bring him in as a prisoner, not a guest,” he spat. “I’m not sure I like the idea of them getting the first crack at the marquis. Ezekiel may be a bloody-minded idiot, but the snake in silk isn’t. Whatever happened to first come, first served?”

  “Old school etiquette, I think,” Ambrose offered. “The last one into the room is the boss, last to sit is head of the table, the last one introduced is the one most honored.”

  “Let’s hope,” Milo said. “We need to get the marquis’ help, and then we need to get back to the Rollsy. Can you get it working?”

  Ambrose frowned and shrugged.

  “Maybe,” he said. “I won’t know until we get back and I have a chance to look things over, but worse comes to worst, I know where we can get a truck.”

  He gave a slight nod toward the Americans, whose conversation had become more animated, Mr. Astor pointing a finger in Ezekiel’s face repeatedly.

  “I’d be worried a mad dog like Boucher would bite my finger off if I did that,” Milo said at a volume that made it clear he didn’t care if he was overheard. “That’s the problem with those kinds of pets, isn’t it, Ambrose?”

  Ambrose crossed his arms over his chest and nodded grimly.

  “True enough. They’ll turn on you eventually, mark my words.”

  Ezekiel’s smile stretched with each word until it was nearly a grimace when he turned to look at them. Percy whispered something sharply to the cowboy, but his words went unheeded, so he turned back to the curtain, his face in his palm.

  “Funny thing you talkin’ about turnin’, seein’ as you both turned your backs on your own kind.” The scalp hunter tittered. “I may be a bad hombre, but at least I don’t sign my soul away to work for ‘em.”

  “I always heard Americans were ignorant,” Ambrose shot back. “I see you’re an exceptional example of your kind.”

  Percy sniffed at the remark but refused to turn around, while Ezekiel’s wormy tongue played across his stained smile.

  “I am what I am, damnation and all,” the scalp hunter said at last, absently raising a hand to stroke the forelocks dangling from his arms. “But you yellow-bellied, back-shootin’, pixie-lovin’ sons o—”

  The curtain suddenly drew back, and the many faces of Bakbak-Devi loomed over them.

  “IT IS TIME, COME.”

  “Thank goodness,” Percy groaned, and he and Ezekiel made to follow.

  Milo and Ambrose caught a brief glimpse of a wide green space where plumes of smoke rose from braziers to cast everything in a soporific haze. Wavering like heat mirages, they saw strange and elegant creatures reclined upon couches and divans before a small but ornate pavilion.

  Then the curtain fell.

  “Maybe the marquis could help us with transportation,” Milo said as they stood straining and failing to hear what was happening within. “Riding the wind like Rihyani does could put us back there quicker than driving, though I’d hate to leave the car.”

  “One favor at a time,” Ambrose replied, casting a look over one shoulder then the other. “We’re not even sure this marquis will help us.”

  Milo turned from staring at the curtain to meet Ambrose’s gaze.

  “I don’t think Rihyani would send us here if we couldn’t expect help.”

  He hadn’t meant to sound so hot and scolding, but the words came out sizzling, and Ambrose raised one eyebrow and gave a significant pause before responding.

&nbs
p; “I think Rihyani was desperate, like we all were,” the big man said slowly. “She pointed us at our best shot, but that doesn’t mean things are going to go smooth. I mean, she did say it would take some convincing. I think it would be better to go in assuming we’re going to have to earn our miracle, rather than expecting it.”

  Milo bit back the irritated retort he felt surging up from his gut, taking time to nod. Even if Ambrose was wrong, it wouldn’t hurt them to proceed with caution. Rushing things had more potential to foul them up than help.

  “You’re right, good point,” Milo said and turned back to the curtain to stare until a thought struck him. “Doesn’t it seem strange that once again, we are stuck waiting to be introduced to some magical despot?”

  “Let’s hope this one goes smoother.” Ambrose huffed as he looked forlornly at the Gewehr on his shoulder. “I haven’t got any ammunition for her yet.”

  “You’ve still got that,” Milo said, nodding at the carbine strapped to his back. “And from what happened in the grove, I’d say it works fine.”

  “Machine-operated action, self-ejecting,” Ambrose said, and Milo wasn’t sure if it was disgust or awe in his voice. “Even a child could put eight rounds downwind without pause.”

  Milo studied his bodyguard’s face, but the usually expressive features had formed into a sort of mask. Ambrose was locked away with thoughts he wasn’t interested in expressing, but Milo thought he saw some of that same fear and despair that he had seen on the balcony.

  “Sounds like it will come in handy if things go like they did last time,” Milo said, hoping to coax him out of his malaise. “If we ever get to step past this damned curtain.”

  Beyond the curtain, there was a sound like raised voices. Both men paused, waiting for the many-headed ogre to emerge, but the shouting quieted, and their wait continued.

  “I knew an American, different sort than those two, who served in the French Foreign Legion with me.” Ambrose chuckled, his eyes sliding out of the middle distance. “He used to say that a soldier’s business was largely a matter of hurry up and wait.”

  Milo sighed. “I suppose a magus’ life is much the same.”

  “We’re all prisoners in a world of petty tyrants.” Ambrose grunted. “At least until we carve out our own little fiefdom. Then we get our turn, assuming we make it that far.”

  “You read that line in a book.” Milo snorted with a sidelong glance.

  “Nope, just a little nugget I’ve been polishing,” Ambrose replied loftily. “Thought I’d share it with someone who could use it.”

  “Thanks, but maybe you should keep your nuggets to yourself.”

  Ambrose pointedly refused to meet the long look Milo gave him.

  “You still aren’t as funny as you seem to think you are.”

  The curtain parted and the giant beckoned them.

  * * *

  The Marquis of the Lost Vale sat quietly in the shadow of his pavilion. Two braziers wafted fragrant smoke that filled the tent, so throughout his retelling, Milo could only see the vaguest impression of a seated tall figure. The marquis’ sandaled feet and long hands were the only things that emerged from the shadow of the tent, pearlescent and sharp-clawed. In one elegant hand was a goblet that seemed to be fashioned from polished granite, which the fey would occasionally draw into the shadows to drink from. Milo imagined he saw two glinting eyes within the deep shade.

  The marquis had listened without comment as Milo had told the story of Rihyani’s injuries at the hands of Ezekiel Boucher and the discovery that her recovery was prevented because of the curse the murderous cowboy bore.

  “So Contessa Rihyani sent us to Tsminda Sameba and we met the priest, who instructed us to come here,” Milo said, sweat pouring across his whole body despite the coolness of the evening. “We were pursued by the other two supplicants and their mercenaries while following Father Zoidze’s instructions.”

  Ambrose softly cleared his throat, and Milo nodded.

  “If their presence has burdened you, we sincerely apologize,” Milo added quickly. “We didn’t intend for them to follow us.”

  He forced his eyes to remain fixed on the shadowed figure inside the cloud of smoke, but he’d noted when they’d first been brought through the curtain that the Americans were nowhere to be seen. Milo couldn’t begin to guess whether that was a good or bad thing, but he didn’t imagine gawking across the tables would look very dignified.

  His story done and his explanations given, Milo stood, arms stiff at his sides, waiting. After talking about his experiences in the court of Ifreedahm, he’d hoped he would be more comfortable with this sort of thing, but he’d found an audience with the Bashlek of Ifreedahm was no proof against the nervous energy that made his legs tremble and his mouth run dry. He felt the eyes of the creatures reclining around him pressing dully, slowly turning screws. More than once, a flash of magic sparked across his supernatural awareness, heightening his discomfort. He wanted to demand an answer or at least a response, but he knew that wasn’t likely to produce the results he wanted.

  He stood waiting and tried to silence the hammering of his heart in his ears as he forced himself to draw one breath after another.

  Milo became aware of that ancient, ponderous presence whose slumber he’d interrupted, and again he felt himself in danger of collapsing under its scrutiny. He wanted to run away mentally as well as physically, but he knew to do that would be to forfeit any hope of saving Rihyani, and that was something he could not, would not accept. He’d come this far; he would not turn aside now.

  Thus, he stood and bore the oppressive observation, upright and square-shouldered in both mind and body.

  The haze of perfumed smoke stirred, and Milo heard Ambrose shuffle forward a little. Whatever the bodyguard thought was about to happen or what he could do about it, Milo appreciated the reminder that he wasn’t alone, whatever was about to happen.

  “What is it that you wish of me then?” came a deep, rippling voice from the pavilion.

  Milo gaped for a second, not understanding how it could be unclear what he wanted, but certain that pointing such a thing out could only be construed as an insult.

  “I want your help in breaking the hex so that the contessa may be healed,” Milo said, his tongue sticking a bit at first.

  Again, Ambrose gave the gentlest of coughs.

  “Please,” Milo said. “I want your help, please.”

  There was another long silence, then the marquis’ fingers flexed around his goblet, producing a soft but distinct sound of bone grating against stone.

  “If you wish for me to break the curse upon Ezekiel Boucher, I will not, despite how much I should like to,” the marquis declared in a tone that brooked no contest or question. “But I can teach you how to loosen the bonds of the hex that has gripped the contessa so she may be healed.”

  Milo, whose heart had stopped beating when the marquis said he wouldn’t break the curse, nearly collapsed with relief.

  “Thank you, good Marquis,” Milo said with a deep bow. “Thank you.”

  A single long finger rose, the hooked point of the nail aimed at Milo’s heart.

  “Yet, though the contessa is distant kin to us, we cannot grant this boon free of cost,” the fey said. Milo wondered if the tingle he felt was the slip of the noose around his neck.

  “I will do what I can,” Milo said carefully, uncertain of what such a powerful being as the marquis could want from him.

  “You are the first of your kind who has ever been taught the Art, and even in these dire times, I’d be a fool if I did not extract a geas from you.”

  Milo frowned but kept his eyes upon the marquis.

  “I am not refusing, but I have to admit I do not know what a geas is,” he confessed. “I do not want to swear to something I’m not capable of doing. That would dishonor you and put the life of the contessa at risk, both of which I don’t want to do.”

  “Well spoken,” the marquis said, and to Milo’s surprise, the
re was genuine warmth in his tone. “I will instruct you on what a geas requires, and then you may give me your answer, though if your intentions are as noble as you claim, I’m certain there will be no contest to the matter. For now, though, I’d have you take your ease and dine with me, as I have other questions to ask you of a less immediate but no less serious nature.”

  Milo felt his muscles tighten across his whole body, and it was all he could do to keep from shouting “NO!” at the mention of dinner and conversation. It seemed to Milo that the marquis, like so many other petty tyrants, could not imagine a world where their timetable was not the single deciding factor.

  “Thank you, and I mean no disrespect, but I’m afraid time is an issue,” Milo said, trying to keep the anxiety in his voice in check even as the sincerity of it spilled out. “It took us almost two days to reach your domain, and it will take just as long to return. I’m afraid if things go on much longer, we may lose her.”

  For the first time since coming before the marquis, the assemblage of fey responded to Milo’s words. At first, it was a soft giggle behind Milo, then some heartier chuckles, and then laughter swelled around him, echoing from every direction. He felt his cheeks burn, and a potent if juvenile anger swelled up in him at each wave of laughter that rolled over him.

  “I don’t understand,” Milo said, struggling to keep his tone even. “What is so amusing?”

  The marquis, whose voice had not joined the chorus, silenced them all with a wave of this hand.

  “Fear not, Magus,” the marquis began, his tone warm and sympathetic. “Some forget that the ways and realities of humans are not the ways and realities of our kind. All these things I will explain soon, but first, we must dine. To the manor, my guests.”

  A cheer went up from the assembled fey, and the murmur of conversation and the sound of music returned as they rose and began to move toward the manor in cliques and coveys.

  Milo turned to Ambrose, anger and despair wrestling for control of his tongue.

  “What do we do?”